


velveteen dream

by sakon



Category: A3! (Video Game)
Genre: Auto-Cannibalism, Cake Vore, Cannibalism, Other, POV Second Person, cake gore, uhm wow anyway let's pretend like i didn't write this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:28:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26675914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sakon/pseuds/sakon
Summary: Masumi has a side hustle.
Relationships: Usui Masumi/Reader, Usui Masumi/Unknown Character
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	velveteen dream

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: Proceed with caution. Contains cannibalism, hard vore, underage sexual matters, etc. 
> 
> Cake vore: when you cut somebody and they turn into cake.
> 
> should i post my 20k werewolf monsterfucker tsuzumasu fic--

He looks tiny against the leather couch, decked in expensive clothes, and the delights you love to gift.   
  
It's your seventh meeting over six weeks. There's nothing like Masumi -- what he has, who he is, how he tastes. Your pockets end up empty more often than not; He makes you shell more money than you plan, leaving you both with a satisfied smile, though yours a little different than his. He's a good salesman and knows everything to know about you.  
  
"Good afternoon."   
  
_"Good afternoon."_ Masumi echoes back, staring with blank eyes.   
  
They barely flicker, and a crooking finger beckons you forward. It's straight to business. Just like him, isn't it?  
  
"Skip the formalities." He sighs, "what do you want?" Masumi asks as he runs the knife down his arm, and well, you swallow as you stare. It's ornate, curling with spirals and jagged edges, a thick handle, a thin metal blade, and --- you can't stop staring at it. His skin dents under the knife, silver twisting just enough to make his skin bend and nothing more.  
  
A rush runs up your spine, fingers tensing for a split second.  
  
Control is fleeting when you see him scrape hard enough to create a thin line, one sufficiently thin to lick but not enough to squeeze anything substantial, his slender fingers pinching the wound and squeezing red jam from it. A wave of heat hits you. Your hands freeze, and warmth burns inside of you. _Lord,_ he already has you like this.   
  
"An ear, a finger, a toe?" Masumi questions as he stalks up to you, meeting you half-way in the middle beside a beautiful wooden table, a creme cloth ironed over it. He poses, barely arching his back as he stands for you to inspect and worship. From the view, it almost looks as if a haze has clouded his eyes, misty and distant and lidded.   
  
He becomes someone new, immersing himself in the fantasy to please you. He lets you hold the knife as he analyses his body and lets you do as well. His body looks so beautiful; there's no way to chose. His soft skin peeks from his hands, sheer sweater letting skin slip through, shorts you ordered him to wear, exposing his long legs and pretty ankles. Like everything, they're thin. Crooking your finger, you call him closer, humming as you do so.  
  
You begin to inspect the meat. Sliding a finger to stroke up his thighs, pinching it and earning a huff, then slipping it into the fabric of his shorts --- you can barely call them that --- to cup his hip bones and touch the space above the flaccid cock, pinching it. You wonder if Masumi will strip for you and castrate himself, letting you suck from the spurting cock jam and cum, each mixing and --- you shiver, and your loud breaths tremble. Of course he won't, but you indulge in the thought regardless.   
  
His eyes flicker, flashing a look of utter disgust. His hands come to his shorts, pushing the button out of the slit and carefully pulling down the zipper and putting the knife to his abdomen. He takes it as you want that. No, _that_ isn't what you want.  
  
Your hand flies against the knife, lifting it before it pierces his skin as you continue to inspect the flesh. Masumi holds it back, staring down at you with a half-unreadable expression as your fingers spread warmth over his body. They hook into his shorts and pull them down, leaving him exposed in lace undergarments and leaving the garments to fall to the floor.  
  
The sheer fabric exhibits his decently endowed nature and perfect skin --- smooth, hairless. Cupping his cock, you pump it a few times, eliciting the slightest of squirms and a hitched breath and a stern glare. You thumb his thighs, tempted to leave a sign you were there. His hands fall to pull it down, but you pause. _That's it. That's what you want today._  
  
He pulls them off, and you continue to inspect him like livestock. Defile him. You want to desperately. He watches you shiver with the thought and glares even harder. Another rolls down your spine, heat pooling in your abdomen as you trace his body with your eyes, him shifting uncomfortably with impatience. You can afford to wait. After all, there's so much to see. There's so much for you two to do. It takes minutes for you to finish, excess fondling taking up your time. You just can't help grabbing his beautiful excess, feeling the juiciness of the flesh when you fondle it. After retracting your hands, you lean on one.  
  
"Your palm." You answer when he looks expectantly. His pinkie was lemon cake, left bicep marble cake bleeding cherry juice, thighs a sweet and delectable apple cake, and the smooth flesh of his ass a Boston creme cake. Masumi let you go far that day, licking into his flesh, digging to hear that sweet squelching sound until you touched bone. Coconut flakes and convulsing. And in the one after, he'd sliced off his ear, letting you whisper into it as you consumed the flesh and sticky jam, eating and swallowing the lemon cake and meat as it transformed. You haven't reached farther than those. What will it be this time?  
  
"Fine." Masumi answers, curt.   
  
Tonight, he stays with you. In his dorm, there's no time to do this; they'll notice a missing finger, though not a missing toe, and they'll instinctively fret and worry. There's reason to, but you're selfish. You like keeping him to yourself, running the knife down his skin yourself, and laying with your arm around his waist as you drift into the abyss of night. Besides, the thought of eating his feet somehow makes your stomach curl in the worst of ways. Even if it'll let him sleep at his dorm, it isn't worth it. You prefer nicer things, like eating from his wrist and ribs, his stomach and fingers, though you do wonder how it tastes. It's not something you want to try soon, though.  
  
You can do it; there's enough time to.   
  
Barely flinching, he stabs the knife into his wrist and yanks up, a crunch echoing as he shoves it through his thick flesh. Blood spurts from the growing divot, staining his pristine tan sweater --- he looks so good in them, you gift them regularly --- then the table. The blood is thin, reflecting the light as it coagulates into jam, clumping, and like tissue. You shiver, sucking in a breath as you stare. He shoots you a look of disgust, gritting his teeth as he cuts out a piece of flesh. It transforms into velvet today. You suppose it's the right choice.  
  
The flesh jiggles in his hands, the edges still there, but the rest of the cake yet formed. Placing it on a tray, he slides it to you, digging a thumb into the wound to smear jam across it, chewy strings of fat still hanging off as it transforms. Yellow turns into a custard, sitting over the tiny slice drizzle on a cake. Then, he places the knife down on the table and fixes himself to a seat to watch you eat, fulfilling another one of your fantasies.  
  
You lift a utensil from the table, digging into the cake as you stare at him. He's staring at a piece of himself, watching himself be consumed. An idea strikes you, and the utensil pauses in the air before the cake can meet your mouth.  
  
"I want to see you eat it."  
  
Masumi blinks, disgusted.   
  
"Fine. It's extra then." Masumi murmurs, staring down at the plate of him. There's still meat coagulating, the wet sounds of meat knitting, and sticky flesh crumbling into velvet crumbs.   
  
The price will be docked tomorrow. You'll hate yourself tomorrow, but you're pleased today. Grabbing a fork off the tiny table, he pierces the cake and brings it to his lips, staring down at it for a moment. It's a moment of vulnerability and hesitance, then he swallows it down, dipping in for another piece.  
  
He's eating what should've been his own finger, the silver spoon catching the glint of the light, reflecting in the mirror on the wall. You blink, and it's the same. It's a velveteen dream; your stomach curls, and you hunger for it, watching the skin crawl up little regenerating flesh. Too fascinating. It distracts you from him, but you snap out of it and watch him bring the tiny bite up to his lips, neck bobbing as he swallows. You want to eat from the source, not just from a plate. The jam on his hand looks too good. His hand seems too good.   
  
You want to lick his hand and eat off that. He let you do it once and only once. Maybe he'll let you try again for the right amount of money. Either way, it feels good watching him eat it slowly. Minutes pass and the cake disappears from the plate, and a voice interrupts your thoughts.   
  
"You called me here but you don't want any of it? What do you want?" Masumi asks, dubious as he forces down the last of the cake, minuscule crumbs that you'd lick up sitting on the china plate. The fork clatters and scrapes a sharp gritting sound as he places it down and picks up the knife.

He knows you're not satisfied with just this.   
  
"I want.." You pause. What do you want? Everything looks so good, but you know what you truly want. It's right in front of you, dripping everywhere and utterly tantalizing.   
  
"What? I don't have all day." He, in fact, does.   
  
"Can I-- Let me eat from your hand.. please." You beg, low and hoarse.   
  
He stills to contemplate it. It's not as if he hasn't before; he'll have to listen regardless, though. You're just nice enough to give him some modicum of strength between you.   
  
After a tense moment, his mouth opens.   
  
"Okay... fine." He replies, then repeats it to himself, breathing audibly in as you drop to your knees. It's almost a mantra, and Masumi closes his eyes to avoid staring at you, avoiding sensations for a moment, then opening them. You push him onto the chair in a split second. His knees knock against your chest as you almost lunge, then pull yourself back, closing your eyes and sucking in another breath to keep yourself calm.   
  
Masumi raises his limb with dignity and brings it to your mouth. The red streaks trickle down his arm like branches, spreading tendrils. You lick a stripe across his fingers, groaning. The taste is terrific.   
  
Tentatively you bring your mouth to the open wound, licking at the cake-meat softly. Once the hum of pain subsides for Masumi -- his toes finally stop bunching -- you begin to nibble at it. He flinches, covering it up in an instant, and you slow down. A moment passes again, then you bite into the flesh, feeling liquids and bits of cake and fat gush in your mouth.   
  
Sucking at the flesh, he shakes as you moan, feeling the blood clumping into a thick jam, the bits of meat squishing between your teeth flaking into fluffy, delicious cake. It rolls softly against your tongue, distracting you from the overwhelming taste of the blood. You want to eat more of his flesh, but it turns into cotton soft red, sliding over your tongue as you bite into it. The process slows, though, and the taste finally comes back. You savor the gush of red against your teeth, the way the blood dries your throat out. The cake is still thick against your teeth.   
  
His breathing comes shallow as you lick up his hand, flesh burning hot against your tongue. Each tiny bite rips stringy bits of flesh and fat, swirling into your gums and getting trapped inside the pockets of your teeth as it turns into cake. You have pieces of him inside you, more pieces, and more. Masumi chokes as you sink your teeth into a fleshy bit, arm tensing, and heart jerking. You can feel it. The reaction is so visceral, so real.   
  
"Any more and you'll have to pay more." He chokes out, a hand nudging you away from his wrist. It's his other one, tiny specks covering it. With one last bite full of strings of meat falling into your teeth, you stop sucking and eating and stay there, inhaling the scent. Sugary and metallic.   
  
Pulling away, strings of saliva drip down your chin, face stained with jam and red as you do. His breath evens out when you do, eyes closing for a reprieve. Everything has stopped now. Maybe you pushed him too far, but the thought is erased when his eyes fly open, and he mechanically reaches for a pile of paper towels, wiping off his hands and the table. He gets tiny bits of the tissue paper stuck on his wound, and it's a shame. You'd suck it dry.   
  
Attempting to help only makes him swat you away, his voice low as he tells you to get him water so he can clean. It's not something you can easily explain to the police and the dubious public, so you prefer to keep whatever you have on the down-low. You don't like sharing anyways.  
  
He throws his shirt off over his head, shimmying out of it as he strips down. Every bit of him displays under the light, alabaster contrasting the deep reds specks and stained limbs, the curve of his waist delectable. You might pay to defile his body next time, the desire to listen to him moan and throw your head between his legs, feeling them tighten around your neck as you make him whine. His hair would be against the pillow, tears itching at his eyes as his abdomen clenches, clothes swaying, hands clenching at the sheets -- a sight to behold.  
  
Midnight's crawling up the windows though, seeping through the blinds and covering the world in blanket darkness. The weight pulls under your eyes and your bones into exhaustion. Of all the times to crave him, now isn't the time; tomorrow is. You'll desire him in your dreams, pulling him flush against you to satisfy your urges and to keep you from pestering him. Even in his grace, he looks exhausted, so you try not to stare. Everyone is allowed to be vulnerable, though you wish he knew that.  
  
Maybe you want him to be vulnerable to push him farther, but he doesn't need to know that either.   
  
You'll want him tomorrow. You want him differently now, though, pulling your arm around his waist and dragging him against your chest when he emerges from the shower, freshly soaked. He doesn't protest, as this, too, is a part of the job. You don't pay him simply to eat him, though you admit it's a significant part of it. Who wouldn't want to? This, too, is good.  
  
He jams to his music as you hop in the shower, and when both of you are freshened up for the night, he drags you to the bed. He doesn't love you like that, but he's willing to let you hold him around the waist and play the fantasy out. It's the beginning of your parting til' the next rendezvous, eight hours ticking on the clock. Tomorrow, there's a chance he won't be there when your eyes open. Tomorrow, there's a chance he'll wake you up and let you do more. Masumi is an enigma.   
  
You won't be able to guess tomorrow's events today, but your body already tingles for the next time and the next time. You'll go further, push Masumi to his limits and maybe beyond that, but for now, you'll rest with him, lulling yourself to sleep in the dark to his breathing and the fleshy sounds of his hand knitting back together.  



End file.
